Stacked to the Rafters
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Ever wonder who comes in to make all those repairs after the big fight? A guy has to start somewhere... A Working Stiffs story


There's something about the way a piece of wood feels in your hand that can't be duplicated. There's a sense of connection when I work with wood that I don't get working with any other materials. My mom tells me it's because I was conceived behind the woodpile. Knowing my dad, I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.

I dropped out of school when I was about fifteen. After Dad died of cancer, I tried running the farm, but that was his dream not mine. He left the farm to me. Being the oldest son, I guess he thought I would continue to work it. Dad did have a condition in his will that Mom be allowed to stay as long as she saw fit. She was much younger than he and I guess he didn't see her staying put for long.

He was right. Within six months, Mom was dating and married about four months after that. Not even a year passed before Mom was going by a whole new name and to go with it a new image. She shed her farmer's wife role and eagerly grasped that of the wife of a well-to-do banker. When her new husband decided it was time to move to the city, she signed everything over to me. Then they moved everyone lock, stock, and barrel to Burlington, leaving me behind, of course.

I couldn't run the place by myself and really didn't want to. I sold off the stock and the equipment. I pulled down the barn, selling the lumber to some out-of-state contractors. They paid a pretty penny for it.

With the money, I moved into town and found myself a little place and set up shop. I'd always loved carpentry and felt it was time to give that a try. The feeling of the wood in my hands, I swear at times I could feel furniture sighing as I touched it. That was how I came to know what jobs I could or couldn't repair. If the piece wanted me, it spoke to me. If not, I would just turn it away as I would be able to do it justice.

I did repairs, occasionally replicated furniture that folks brought me pictures of, and built some pieces of my own design. I wasn't that book smart, but wood, varnish, stain… those were as familiar to me as my own image in a mirror and I used them all to my advantage.

I had enough work to keep me busy most of the time and enough money in the bank to hold body and soul together when I wasn't. At twenty four, I figured I was set for life doing a job I loved and answering to no man other than myself. I kept to myself and avoided people for the most part. I didn't need them; I had my tools, my skill and what Nature created.

The town I live in was this small spit in the road place, and it never took much time for word to travel. It was a Tuesday morning, the day promising to be hot and muggy, like most summer mornings around this part of the country. There would be rain in the afternoon and maybe some at night.

As was my habit, I went to the local diner to check the board for jobs and to put up more of my business cards. They were only homemade things, but they did the job.

I was finishing up when the front door to the diner busted open and Hildy, the local busybody, came running in. Her face was all red and blotchy, not a good look on someone who was already not all that easy on the eyes.

"Slow down, child, you act like there's a murderer after you." Belle, the diner's owner and only waitress poured a glass of water and handed it to Hildy. "Where's the fire?"

"Edge of town, there was a big old gun battle. They blasted the heck out of the hotel. They plowed a car right through the lobby! It was great!"

My ears pricked up – damage meant work and I just so happened to be out of it at the moment. Within a minute I was out the door. And within an hour, I'd secured a position repairing the damaged furniture. The rumor was that Nathan Hale had once taken tea here. That's about as likely as my sprouting wings and flying, but what the hell?

Anyways, the days stretched on and while stuff was going on all around me, I ignored it and concentrated upon what was in front of me. There was a tea cart –THE tea cart, if you believe such things, which had been badly damaged. It would have been easier to toss it and buy something else, but that wasn't an option since they'd built such a history around this one piece.

I was sitting, hand carving a new spoke for the right wheel when I realized there was a man watching me. I'd seen him a half dozen times, usually with this little blond guy in tow. The two seemed to be in charge of cleaning stuff up, but they didn't bother me, so I ignored them until the dark-haired fella spoke to me.

"You do good work." He'd picked up one of the spokes I'd already finished. "I can see the pride you have in your craftsmanship."

"Thanks." I glanced sharply at him, suddenly realizing that he was one of us. Granted, he was dressed the way Dad had been the day we buried him. Except I could tell these weren't his Sunday go to meeting clothes, it was just regular stuff to him.

It would have been prideful to wish I could afford such things. Besides, it would look very funny for me to be staining furniture in a three piece suit. No matter that, I could hear the twang in his voice, the accent that said he was a Vermonter born and bred.

"I have an aunt who has several pieces that she'd like repaired, but she's never found anyone she likes. I think you might be the man she's looking for."

"She live hereabouts?"

"In New York," he said, glancing around. "If I could arrange to have one of the pieces shipped here, would you be willing to take a look at it? I'd be willing to pay you a retainer."

He pulled out a money clip and I could see the $50 and $100 bills in it. I figured if he wanted to part with some of that cash, who was I to stand in his way? "Okay."

I came home one day and there was a crate on the front porch of my little shop. In it was a roll top desk, except it looked as if a wild cat had been at it. It was all scarred and scratched.

I ran my hand through my hair and just stared. I'd never seen a piece of furniture so messed up. It looked like someone had whomped on it with a chain.

"Can you repair it?" The man had come up on me so quietly I didn't even hear him until he spoke. I jumped a bit and then shook my head slowly.

"Gimme a bit." I reached out and ran my hand over the desktop, then felt a tremor move up my arm as if the desk was sighing happily from me just touching it. Then I grinned. "Yup, I'm sure."

That was how I meet Napoleon Solo. Soon after, I met his partner, Illya Kuryakin, a real honest-to-God Russian. I'd never known one of them and the more I got to know about him, the less I could figure out why we want to fight them. He seemed nice enough.

I finished up with the work at the hotel, but I wasn't alone any more. Mr. Solo or Mr. Kuryakin would come by and talk for a bit. It was never for long and they always seemed too distracted at the hotel. At night, they would stop by the shop to see how I was coming along with Aunt Amy's desk. Mr. Solo was anxious to have it ready for Christmas and I didn't see any real problem, but he was worried.

I was sitting on the porch, working a piece of leather. It was to replace the worn out bits that were part of the actual rolling top of the desk.

"Are you sure you can do it, Hector?" I was named after my grandfather. Mr. Solo was sitting next to me, sipping a beer and watching the world go by. Mr. Kuryakin was leaning on the rail, his face turned towards the sky, catching the last bit of sun.

"I can." I don't talk too much, but that didn't seem to matter much to either of them. They usually filled in the gaps themselves. They often spoke in a foreign language, but I didn't mind. I could tell by the sound of the words that they weren't for anyone else's ears but their own. 'Sides, I was busy listening to the wood.

"I don't understand you," Mr. Solo said softly, as he turned his attention from Mr. Ferguson's dog to me. "You have such talent. You could come to the city and make a fortune. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Nope." I set down the leather I held and nodded with my head. "Could you hand me that bit of ash there?"

He looked around, totally lost, then decided I meant the piece of wood beside him and picked it up. "This, you mean?"

"Yup." And I watched his eyes. Nothing. Mr. Solo was a man of the world, but not of the Earth. He knew all about so many things, but he'd lost his connection to Nature by doing it. He passed it over and I offered it to Mr. Kuryakin.

He took it, frowned and immediately shifted it, hefting it, testing its weight. I felt badly for him as well. I saw a thing of beauty. He saw a weapon. They were just like everyone else.

I took it back from him and set it down beside the stacked desk drawers. "Thanks."

"What was that all about, Hector?" Mr. Kuryakin had a funny kinda accent. I liked listening to it.

"Nothing… looks like rain." The clouds were starting to pile up like they did. "You two best get back home." They'd been staying at the nearly repaired hotel. With a nod and thanks for the hospitality they were off.

I was making myself some Ovaltine when I heard Dixie barking his head off. Now this dog barked when a bird took a crap flying overhead, so I didn't really pay it much mind, figuring it was the rain that had him going. At least that's what I thought until I heard the noise on the porch.

My first thought was that someone was messing about with Aunt Amy's desk. That cherry would be worth something and I grabbed my rifle and ran down the stairs.

There were two figures silhouetted against the night sky. One raised a hand like it was a deadweight and I watched the second figure slump. Something was very wrong and I propped the rifle up against a chair and opened the door.

Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin practically fell into the room. Almost immediately, Mr. Kuryakin was up on his hands and knees, trying to heft Mr. Solo up.

"Close the door and turn off the lights," he ordered and I did so, staring at him as he dragged Mr. Solo out of the doorway. His voice was thick and sounded very odd. Then I realized Mr. Solo was leaving a trail across my floor.

"Holy shi…"

"Yes, do you have a first aid kit?" He got Mr. Solo into my woodshop and leaned him up against the bottom cabinets.

"Yeah," I murmured and grabbed a handful of towels. "Here."

I was just coming down the stairs with the first aid kit when I saw a different pair of shadows against the downstairs windows, like they were trying to see in or something. Instantly, I knew these were not the sort of people I'd want to have in my place. Now I knew why Mr. Kuryakin was so keen on my shutting off the lights. I could hear Dixie going insane and knew that I was just on this side of having the entire town in here. My neighbors are what you might call the nosy type, 'specially that Old Man Dubois.

There was a pounding on the door and I looked back at the kitchen. I stuffed the kit behind some sacks and answered the door.

"Evening." The two guys looked at me like I smelled bad or something. "Can I help you?"

The closest guy held up a couple rain-splattered photos. Even in the low light, I recognized Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. I stared at them for a bit and then nodded. "Yup. That blond guy owes me money. Thought he could just run off and not pay, the welcher… Dark haired guy, last I saw him, he was doing stuff at the hotel. You check there?" I stopped then, almost winded. That's more than I usually say in a week.

"They aren't there," the second guy said. "Someone thought they saw them coming in this direction… what's that?" He pointed to the blood trail Mr. Solo had left. Blood that these two likely started spilling. They had a mean look to them, from their eyes right down to their mud-splattered shoes.

Old Man Dubois, one of my neighbors, appeared over their shoulder, but they didn't see him. They were too interested in the floor. "Shh, do you want to bring the sheriff down on me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I got me a twelve point buck in the kitchen. That ain't necessarily legal this time of the year. Bastard was eating my garden."

Old Man Dubois was gone now and I only hoped he was off to phone the sheriff. That little bastard was always trying to get me in trouble ever since I told the law he was running a still in his old outhouse.

"I think maybe you need to come out here and let us take a look at the… buck."

"Okay." I wasn't going to argue with them, not since they were probably carrying a weapon or something. I stepped out onto the porch and as soon as I was clear, I snatched up that piece of ash and brought it down on the closest fella's head. The second guy turned and I slammed the end of the stick into his stomach and then whacked him too. Maybe Mr. Kuryakin was right; maybe this was a weapon, after all.

I ran back into the house and grabbed the first aid kit. Mr. Kuryakin's head came up, but his gun hand came up even faster. He had Mr. Solo propped up on his lap and neither of them looked very good.

"Just me." I held out the first aid kit.

"Those men?" He lowered the weapon and sighed.

"They're taking a little nap now."

Mr. Solo groaned and moved a little bit. "Illya?"

"It's okay, Napoleon, the danger has passed." He brushed Mr. Solo's hair off his forehead. "Help will be here soon."

Not long after that, they were gone. Mr. Solo was taken to the regional hospital in a helicopter; Mr. Kuryakin was right at his side. The bad guys, they were hustled away by some of Mr. Solo's and Mr. Kuryakin's friends. I tried to feel sorry for them, but I felt worse for that piece of ash than I did them.

I mopped the blood from my floor and smiled as Deputy Andrews came knocking and politely asked me about a deer. Honestly, people are so gullible.

A few weeks passed and I was putting the finishing touches on Aunt Amy's roll top desk. The desk practically shined now. It was truly a thing of beauty as far as I was concerned. A car stopped and I glanced up, tucking my polishing rag away into a back pocket as I did.

The driver's door opened and Mr. Kuryakin got out. He ran around the car and opened the passenger door. Slowly, Mr. Solo climbed out. Mr. Kuryakin never took his eyes off him, but he also didn't make a move to help either. Some guys are like that though; they want to do it on their own.

"Hector, how are you?" Mr. Solo's voice was quiet and he walked slowly, a cane bearing part of his weight.

"I'm good, sir. Yourself?"

"Alive, thanks to your quick thinking. Illya tells me you were quite the story teller."

"Well, when the mood is upon me." I smiled and led the way to the porch. "I was wondering how to get this back to you."

"Hector, that is beautiful." Mr. Kuryakin watched Mr. Solo sit down and then he walked to the desk. "Napoleon, Amy is going to be beside herself come Christmas."

"She certainly is." Almost like in slow motion, he reached into his jacket and took out an envelope that he held towards me. "This is for you, with UNCLE's thanks for services rendered."

My mouth dropped at the check. "Well, heck, Mr. Solo, your uncle don't have to pay me this much."

"UNCLE is our employer," he explained with a smile. "And he is very thankful for all that you have done with the repairs to the hotel furniture and for keeping me alive and kicking."

"Still though…"

"Think of it as a retainer," Mr. Kuryakin interrupted. "Mr. Solo and I have a propensity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We could use someone with your talents. Say you'll think about it?"

"Okay."

Mr. Solo looked like he was just worn out and was struggling to stay awake. Mr. Kuryakin saw it too. "Come on, Napoleon, I promised that old war horse that I'd have you back by three."

He helped Mr. Solo stand and kept an arm around his waist until he was sure Mr. Solo was okay. Then I snapped my fingers.

"Don't leave just yet." I ran back through the house and into my woodshop. The ash was still on the lathe, but it was ready to go. I lifted it out with a sense of pride and felt the wood sigh in my hands. I went back through the house and wasn't surprised to see that Mr. Kuryakin had gotten Mr. Solo tucked back into the car.

I held out my gift to him and he took it with a look of puzzlement. "What's this?" He turned it over in his hand, smiling as he saw his name burned into it.

"A gift for helping me see things a bit more like other folks. Sometimes a piece of wood is a work of art, but other times, it makes a right fine bat."


End file.
